Vanished
by ds96
Summary: Seven years ago, the Winchester family was broken apart once again when the youngest member was kidnapped. Now, as Dean and John continue to search for Sam, their abilities are put to the test as hope falters; and Sam struggles with the nightmare he's been thrust into. Will the Winchesters be whole again? Dean is aged 20 and Sam 16, please review!
1. Prologue

**A/N – the prologue is far shorter than the chapters that will follow, so don't stress, they will be much larger. **

**- Please please please review so that I know somebody wants me to keep writing. - This chapter is rather dry in terms of content, and in chapter 2 I hope to relive that fateful night seven years ago, so that I can show my readers what exactly went down in the Winchester household that left the youngest member missing. The prologue was done more so that I could introduce readers to the context of the story, so that I can hopefully get into the interesting stuff pretty soon. **

**due to the fact that this chapter is tiny, and I'm already working on the next chapter, I will aim to have the next one uploaded ASAP, hopefully sometime today. Again, please review! And enjoy **

**Disclaimer – I do not own any recognizable characters, inc. the Winchesters. Supernatural and the characters within it belong to the CW and Eric Kripke. **

X

Dean continued to stare blankly at the cold, still body of the boy that lay ahead of him, deceased, thought just moments ago to have been the body of somebody far more precious to him.

"Dean," John Winchester started quietly, standing slouched just behind his eldest son, reflecting the same sense of disappointment that Dean did. Amongst the myriad of emotions that spiraled through his head, John's overpowering disappointment was equaled only with a similarly bulky sense of relief.

Relief that the body that lay before he and his son was not that of his other.

"Dean," he continued, gently placing the palm of his right hand on Dean's shoulder, half to gain his attention and half to provide comfort. This was hard on John, _God it was hard, _but he couldn't even fathom how hard this must have been on Dean. "It's not him, Dean. Let's go."

Dean didn't speak, just forced himself to turn and follow his father out of the mortuary, his mind beginning to wander back to the image of the young, shaggy-haired brunette teenager, who's body remained on a tray in the mortuary, still awaiting his identification. Dean had been sure it was Sam, he was certain; when he first saw the tall, gangly body lay carefully out before him, or the long, wiry limbs that stemmed from the body, or perhaps it was the shaggy head of chestnut-brown hair that hung loosely on the boy's scalp. Whatever it was, Dean's heart stopped when he entered the mortuary and saw the body of what he'd assumed had been his brother. All these years of looking had come to an end, only to discover his brother dead, his life cut short by a speeding car.

But no, Sam was not dead. Or at least, this was not his body. The boy's facial features did not belong to Sam. Dean hadn't seen Sam in years, but he could never forget his face. The dead boy's eyes were brown, unlike Sam's piercing green. His nose too large, his lips didn't form the slight curve upwards that Sam's did. His skin did not freckle underneath his right eye, where Dean recalled a couple of light brown spots dotted Sam's face.

This boy wasn't Sammy, and Dean would have given anything for that thought to comfort him.

X

The drive back to the hotel from the mortuary was similar to the drive there; only the atmosphere was no longer laced with a sense of anticipation and hope, rather, disappointment and failure.

Dean figured that by now they should have been used to it, the disappointment. Sam had been gone seven years now – _God, seven years – _and still he and his father's hearts seemed to break more and more with each incorrect lead. Each time a new lead appeared, a new possibility, the Winchesters clung onto whatever hope they could find, whether it was false or not.

For the first few years after Sam's disappearance, Dean and John's lives were totally consumed by the need to find their missing family member. They stopped hunting altogether for anything besides Sam and his captors. But despite their efforts, nothing came up, nothing.

Just how the hell does _nothing _come up? How does someone just disappear off the face of the earth, leaving no trail to follow, nothing?

Dean had racked his mind with those questions since the day he lost his brother, and had ever since, and he'd be damned if he was going to have those very same questions swiveling around in his mind when he was old and grey. Dean was going to find his little brother, one way or another; he would leave no stone unturned, no doors unopened until his family was complete once more.

So, seven years later, here they were, the Winchester family minus one. Dean still as hopeful that he would find his brother as he had been a week after Sam was taken from them. John was not so hopeful. While he admired his eldest son's ability to retain hope despite the seemingly endless trail of disappointment and no answers that they followed, John feared that the hunt for Sammy would consume Dean's everything. Dean put away little time for himself; dropping out of high school once he was of age, only to use his newly freed time to search for his brother even more vigorously. Since then – Dean had dropped out of school four years earlier, when he was sixteen – Dean spent his time searching, searching, eating, sleeping, searching, drinking and searching, and if he ever had a free moment, he'd spend that searching, too.

John had tried to steer Dean's mind away from the search on the odd occasion, but he always failed. Dean would not allow himself distractions, not when it meant he could be spending that time finding his brother.

And so, eventually, John gave up on trying to give Dean something, _anything _to dedicate his life to other than searching for his long lost - quite possibly long gone – little brother. And, as John's life gradually began to function in the same manner that Dean's did, the search managed to engulf his mind, too.

Until eventually, the only thought that ever ran through the Winchesters' minds was,

_Where the hell is Sammy?_


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**X**

Dean was seated comfortably on the old, decrepit couch of the Winchesters' current motel room, sorting himself through a particularly nasty looking pile of research. He was looking into local reports of a man clad in military boots and uniform who had supposedly appeared spontaneously in an old abandoned home just out of town several times. Usually, John and Dean wouldn't bother much with a case so minor, and they wouldn't have, had two bodies not shown up in the very house the man had appeared in just two weeks ago. The victims – both young, attractive Asian women who lived in the Wisconsin town.

The women had been shot, or so it seemed. An entrance wound and no exit, but no bullet either. When John and Dean searched the house, the EMF had gone crazy, and there was no doubt in their mind that this was the work of a vengeful spirit. The only problem was, they couldn't find any information on any previous owners of the house who'd been in the military, and certainly none who had any apparent motives to murder young Asian women. And so, that very fact led to the unfortunate reality of what Dean was to spend his time doing– research, and lots of it.

John sat behind Dean at the small rounded dining table, carefully cleaning his weaponry, gun by gun, until each weapon was spotless; in the background, the radio played a Metallica song to which John carelessly bopped his head and tapped his foot as he performed his duties.

Unable to concentrate on the research in front of him anymore, Dean, not removing his eyes from his hands, spoke to his father, expressing the thought that had flowed into and never out of his mind since their trip to the morgue two weeks earlier.

"Dad?" Dean started quietly, trying to sound as casual as possible. John's reply was in the form of an "mmm", highlighting his disinterest in the conversation but providing Dean with a response, at least.

Dean hesitated, and leant forward on the couch, so that his elbows rested on his thighs as he slouched over and twirled his mother's wedding ring around his finger. "Do you … do you think Sammy's still alive?"

John was slightly taken aback, not expecting his son's question to weigh so heavily on his shoulders.

"Dean…" John tried to formulate a response, but in reality, was truly unsure in his mind of what his answer would be. In truth, he'd never really thought about it, well, he'd thought about it – nonstop – but he'd never _really thought _about it.

Dean turned to focus on his father, the two generations of Winchester made eye contact with eachother, before John broke away to look at a stain on the carpet.

"Dad?" Dean pressed softly, waiting impatiently for a response.

"I … I don't know, Dean. Nobody can really know. We just have to hope"

"Hope? Dad, we're a little past the point of relying on _hope _don't you think? I mean, Sammy's been gone for seven years dad, _seven_! And we've come up with jack squat! It takes a little more than just a lousy bit of _hope _to keep going the way we do, you know?"

"Then what is it Dean? What is it that keeps you looking, because I sure as hell don't know what it is if it aint hope." John had hoped that he would be the last to speak on this topic, it hurt him, to speak of the son he'd lost. Sure, almost everything he thought about was somehow related to Sam, but speaking about him, verbalizing his name, essentially making him a presence in the room, that was different. John felt a similar sense of guilt that had made itself known seven years ago resurface. Perhaps resurface wasn't the right word, it wasn't as though the guilt had ever disappeared, just ... faded. Whatever the word, the emergence of John's guilty conscience weighed hard on his ability to retain his emotions in front of his son, and if he was truly being honest, John may have actually admitted that all this talk of Sammy had brought his eyes to water.

Hesitating once again, but this time more in personal thought than anything else, Dean stood and looked out the window, before turning to face his father, who still sat seated at the table, distracting himself by vigorously cleaning an already pristine sawed-off.

"He's alive dad, I just know it." Dean spoke quietly, making his way back to his groove on the couch. Rubbing his palm against the stubble on his jaw, Dean continued, "It's like I can feel it or somethin', I think I'd feel different, if he were … you know. But it just feels like he's out there somewhere, like he's maybe thinkin' about us or waitin' for us to come 'n get him. God, I hope he's still waitin'" Dean held in a breath, wiping his hands through his thin spiky hair, "You don't think he's given up on us do you, dad? Don't think he thinks we've stopped looking?"

John couldn't handle it anymore, thoughts of his Sammy laying cold and alone, for all these years, waiting and waiting but nobody showing up. Until eventually, he just _gives up, _on his family, his only hope. Abruptly, John stood from the table and stormed into the bathroom, not before throwing Dean "I don't know son, I just don't know, okay?"

Suddenly left alone in the motel room, Dean felt a tinge of guilt towards his father, aware that he did not cope well with discussing Sammy. Dean knew that his father mirrored his own guilt over Sammy's disappearance, both men held a strong sense of protectiveness towards the youngest Winchester, and so, both men held themselves responsible for Sam's misfortune.

Sighing, Dean ignored the sound of the tap running in the bathroom, aware that his father was likely splashing himself with the water, hoping to wash away the memories of the night Sam had disappeared, and flopped onto the bed. Attempting to dream of something other than his brother, Dean rolled onto his side and tried to picture something else.

But, as he always did, Dean failed.

X

_Dean's peaceful slumber was interrupted by the sound of something tapping lightly on the front door. Ignoring the intrusive noise, Dean put it down to a branch or the wind, but gradually the sound became louder, until it had erupted into a full-blown repetitive thumping on the door. _

_Dean was a little freaked now, he has to admit. _

_"Dean?" Sam's voice echoed with an innocence that didn't quite make sense, at the ripe age of nine, Sam had still seen far too much to be this naïve to the evil in the world. _

_"It's ok, Sammy, stay in bed. Here –" Dean said, handing his younger brother the .45 he kept on the bedside table between their beds. Sammy groggily rubbed his eyes before accepting the weapon from his brother, assuming the correct position in order to hold it safely and correctly should whatever the hell was outside the room make it's way in. Dean, too preoccupied with the repetitive knocking on the door that had not halted since it began to think about how truly fucked up it was that his nine year old brother knew how to correctly handle a firearm, stood from the bed, careful not to damage the salt lines drawn carefully around both he and his brother's beds. _

_Feeling somewhat vulnerable now that he was not within the safety of his salt line, Dean was quickly comforted by the memory that there were further salt lines that covered the perimeter of the room, including the doorway. Gently walking over to the table and picking up his dad's M9 handgun, thankful that he had left it behind a week ago when he left the boys in this motel to conduct a hunt with uncle Bobby. _

_Dean's hand rested comfortably with the gun, his fingers embracing each curve of the weapon so that he held it in the most deadly position possible – the correct one. _

_The knocking at the door stopped, and for a moment, Dean had hoped that whatever it was had gone. But, unfortunately, the Winchesters' luck had officially run dry the night Mary died, and since then, life for the boys had simply become one long string of poor luck, and tonight was no exception. _

_Before Dean had even realized what had happened, the door splintered under somebody's forceful kick from the outside, and collapsed in a cloud of dust and salt. The salt lines now broken, Dean feared that the creature would swiftly end he and his brother. But, to his surprise, nothing entered the room after the door was knocked down. His gun remained aimed towards the door for the next minute or so, and finally, Dean looked to his brother, who was now crouched behind his bed, his gun similarly aimed toward the door. The boys made confused eye contact, before Dean gestured for Sam to remain where he was. _

_Slowly and quietly, Dean stepped towards the empty doorway, his gun never lowering. When he turned to face the doorway head-on, and nobody stood there, Dean moved himself until he stood in the doorway himself. _

_Gradually, Dean turned the corner and swiftly brought his gun level to his face, aimed in front of him, ready to shoot, only to discover the hallway empty. Analyzing the darkness further for any shapes hidden from immediate sight, or for anything that could perhaps conceal somebody or something behind it, Dean found nothing, and stepped backwards, only to find himself unarmed and on the ground within seconds, after some tall, dark figure took the weapon from his hands and knocked him to the floor. _

_Dean scrambled for his weapon, coming up short when he discovered the figure towering above him held it instead. Crawling backwards, Dean stood and pulled his fists towards his face, ready to fight. The figure laughed, and stepped back into the light that protruded from the motel room doorway. Dean was taken aback to realize that this creature was simply human, tall, broad shouldered and well built, but human. The man remained far stronger and more capable than Dean, however, and Dean was sadly aware that any attempt to fight this man without a weapon was hopeless._

_The man turned his body so that he faced the motel room, and everything inside it. _

_Suddenly overwhelmed with worry for his younger brother, Dean sprinted towards the room, only to have the man swiftly force a fist into Dean's face. Ashamed that he had missed the man's attack, Dean fought back, blindly throwing punches in all directions. Finally, his fist connected with the man's nose, and Dean felt a satisfying _crack _as the man's nose broke beneath his blow. The man mumbled something unintelligible, and gripped Dean by the shoulders, effectively slamming his back into the wall behind him. As Dean's back connected with the brick, the rest of his body had little time to react and, his neck not providing the appropriate support, Dean's head was knocked backwards and sharply impacted with the hard wall. Everything went white for a moment, and Dean's control over his body was lost, as his body fell in a heap at the ground. Still barely conscious, Dean felt the sticky, warm flow of blood trailing down the back of his neck as he watched the scene unfold before him, unable to move his body in action. _

_Sam called out Dean's name, as he lay motionless on the ground, fearing at that moment that his elder brother had been killed before his eyes. Relief flashed for a moment in his eyes at the sight of Dean awake and breathing, but was quickly replaced with fear and terror as the very man who had sent Dean into this state barged into the room towards Sam. _

_Dean had never been so thankful that he had left his brother armed, as Sam aimed and took a shaky shot of his gun, his fear causing the bullet not to penetrate the man in the head or the torso, but instead his right shoulder. _

_The bullet wound did nothing to stop the man, and he continued, only fuelled now by more anger, towards the terrorized nine year old wielding a .45. Before Sam could comprehend what was happening, the man had him knocked to the ground. The man knelt on Sam's back as he helplessly thrashed about and kicked from underneath his weight. The man was about three times the size of Sammy, if not more, and his weight was far too high for Sam to stand any chance fighting back. In a swift movement, the man gripped the back of Sam's hair, tugging his head in an upward motion. Sam's eyes lay for a moment on his brother's, both of them helpless, until the man slammed Sam's head into the hard ground, sending his body still._

_Collecting Sam's small and motionless body into his arms, the man stood and quickly walked from the room, no doubt fearing that the sound of a gunshot had alerted neighbors to his presence. On departure, the man looked down at Dean and a devious smile crossed his face, and he cruelly knelt down, Sam's unconscious body hanging limp in his arms. Dean was sickened a little by the scent of coffee and whisky on the man's breath as he leant in closer to Dean's face. _

"_Another time, Winchester" the man spat, before sending a painful kick towards Dean's head, and Dean's world suddenly faded to black. _

X

Awakening with a start, Dean's face was coated in a sheen of sweat which he promptly wiped away with the back of his hand. Attempting to get his unnaturally fast and heavy breathing under control, Dean noted his father, passed out on his stomach on the bed next to him. Normally, Dean would be surprised that his movements had not caused his father to wake, but, upon noticing the freshly empty bottle of Jack Daniel's on the bedside table, he understand why it was that his father did not stir. John had turned to drinking much more often after Sam's disappearance, approaching the bottle for comfort more so than his own son. Dean understood, and while it hurt him that his father didn't come to him for support, but rather a bottle of poison, he was very much aware that this was just his father's way of dealing with things.

Correctly assuming that his father's drunken state was a result of their earlier discussion about Sam, Dean couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty. After glancing at the clock, which showed that the time was 11:48pm, Dean attempted to get some more sleep. However, the memories of that fateful night seven years ago only continued to replay in his mind, and, admitting defeat, Dean stood from the bed and threw on his coat and shoes, heading out the door, hopeful that the fresh air would be enough to clear his mind of the memories of his lost brother, just for this moment.

X

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 **

**X**

Sam's back is starting to ache now.

Just that and every other part of his body.

He scrubs harder at the carpet now, he'll be home any minute, _cant be here when he arrives._

The bloodstain on the carpet doesn't look like it wants to wash away, _wonderful._

New plan. Sam limps into the kitchen and collects the ammonia cleaner from underneath the sink. Making his way back to the living room, where his own blood had seeped into the fibers of the carpet earlier that afternoon, Sam glanced out the window. It was dark now; pitch black, Sam's favorite time of day. He liked it because it was quiet, calm. Not only that, you could hide in the dark. You could hide from wendigos, from werewolves, from ghosts and demons, you could hide from _him. _

_Speaking of him, _Sam thought sarcastically, hoping to convince himself that he wasn't as afraid as he felt, as the familiar sound of the raspy engine of Ted's truck pulling into the driveway. Sam spared a glance at the wall clock briefly before he quickly walked back to the living room. 12am on the dot.

_Great, just how I wanted to start my day._

Kneeling back down with a wince, Sam scooped some of the ammonia powder out with a spoon and patted it into the football-sized bloodstain on the orange carpet.

_Why did I mention them to him? I'm such an idiot. If I'd just kept my mouth shut I wouldn't be cleaning this shit up. _

Scrubbing relentlessly at the stain, Sam's body froze as the front door was swung open and slammed into the adjacent wall. Ensuring he didn't look up – he didn't want to piss Ted off even more – Sam carried on cleaning, hoping, _begging_, that Ted would just make his way to bed.

Naturally, Sam didn't get what he had hoped for. Did he ever?

"What the hell are you doing, boy?" Ted slurred as he drunkenly stumbled over to Sam's side.

Worried for the pain that may follow his response, Sam did not discontinue his cleaning, nor did he look up into the face of Ted Brennan, his captor, and, as Ted puts it, his 'adoptive father'. _Pfft, adoptive father my ass._

Timidly, Sam responded, careful not to say anything that may anger the man who towered above his skinny body. "I'm cleaning up the … mess from earlier. The blood wasn't coming out with just water, so I borrowed some cleaner. Hope that's alright", Sam's voice was laced with false sincerity, unable to conceal his complete and utter hatred for the man in his presence.

Ted squatted down so that he was at Sam's level now. "Oh, you just thought you'd _help yourself _to everything in my cupboard? _Take _whatever you see fit, is that right Sam?" Sam knew that Ted was not in the least bothered by his helping himself to the cleaning cupboard, after all, it wasn't like Ted ever went in there himself. Still, Ted had seen an opportunity to victimize Sam, and Sam should have known better than to think that he wouldn't take it.

"No, I just-" Sam strated before he was cut off by Ted's drunken voice.

"Shut it, boy. Now now, what you went and did here was bad, real bad. You cant be helpin' yourself to peoples' things, and you need to be taught a lesson." Ted's strong southern accent wrung in Sam's ears, as the reality of his words set in.

"No, please, I'm sorry." Ted shook his head in mock disappointment, cracking his knuckles and neck as he slowly turned his head side to side. Dropping the washcloth and cleaning products, Sam began to stand, before Ted's fist ripped through the air and impacted with the side of Sam's face. Sent to the ground immediately, Sam's head whirred and his mind struggled to catch up with what exactly had occurred. With his expectations based on past experiences – _a lot_ of past experiences – Sam folded his legs into his stomach and covered his face with his arms, preparing himself for the blows that would follow.

Only, they didn't.

After a full minute of laying there, folded in on himself, Sam's curiosity got the better of him, and, silently praying that Ted would be gone when he looked up, Sam sat up, all hope fading as his prayers went unanswered.

Ted was seated on the armchair to Sam's left, with something silver in his hands, the object's shiny metallic luster reflecting off the dim light of the dusty globe hanging from the roof.

"Come here, Sam, now." Ted barked, and Sam reluctantly followed his orders, knowing very well what would happen if he didn't. Still kneeling, Sam's head near shattered at the realization of what exactly was in Ted's hands - the silver spoon that Sam had used earlier to scoop up the ammonia powder while cleaning. Of course, Sam had seen far too many nasties out in the wild to be afraid of the sight of a piece of cutlery. But the small pile of white, foamy powder in the curve of the spoon that reeked of chemical – well that was another story.

Ted leant forward, so his face was just inches away from Sam's. pushing the spoon towards Sam's face he ordered, "swallow it."

No way, there was no way Sam was swallowing that stuff. Sure, Sam didn't really excel when it came to education, but he was smart, and he knew vaguely what would happen if he were to swallow a spoonful of ammonia, and it wasn't pretty. Sam slowly shook his head at Ted and leant backwards, signaling that he wasn't prepared to down a tablespoon of chemical just yet.

"I said, swallow it. You must be hungry, right? You haven't eaten in what, two days? Unless of course you've been sneakin', you haven't been sneakin', have you boy?"

"No, I swear!"

"Good, now, swallow". Ted smiled to himself as he forced the spoon into Sam's mouth, using his free hand to pinch Sam's nostrils shut.

He was out of options, Ted had blocked his nose, and he couldn't breathe through a closed mouth. The ammonia was burning his tongue, he could practically feel his flesh sizzling and the taste wasn't too hot either. If he opened his mouth to breathe and Ted saw that Sam hadn't swallowed – well, Sam would probably end up with yet another spoonful of this crap in his mouth. Not to mention, if Sam opened his mouth, he'd probably be tempted to spit it all out, and that just meant he'd need another spoonful, too. So it seemed that all of Sam's options either involved receiving yet another spoonful of his midnight snack, or swallowing the one he already had.

Aiming to ingest as little of the stuff as possible, Sam opted for the latter, grimacing at the pain as he forced the powder-now-paste down his throat. Opening his mouth to breathe, Sam was horrified to discover he could not.

What? That didn't make sense. Sam had just swallowed the damn stuff so that he could open his mouth and breathe, and now his lungs had gone bye-bye? What the hell was happening?

Ted laughed cruelly as Sam struggled for breath in front of him, wrapping his hands around his own throat in an attempt to massage the ammonia down and make way for oxygen. Allowing Sam to struggle for another twenty or so seconds, until he looked about ready to pass out, Ted stood up and swiveled around, throwing a fist hard into Sam's back. Sam fell forward in a _thump, _and, not allowing himself the energy to sit back up, coughed and spluttered messily, before greedily taking in huge gulps of air before his breathing was back on track.

Ted shook his head at the weakness of the boy before him, "that ought to teach you, boy. Stay the hell out of my things, you hear me Sam?"

Not bothering to wait for a response that he knew wouldn't come, he stumbled out of the room to find another drink somewhere in the kitchen.

Sam, still coughing and gasping endlessly on the ground, finally managed to pull himself up after a few minutes, only to find himself bent over and huddled into himself in an attempt to blind the pain that tore through his mouth and throat.

After swiftly checking that Ted had truly left the room this time, Sam wandered to the back door and proceeded to stumble down the few stairs that he had forgotten led outside. Crawling now, Sam dragged himself to the dirty tap that protruded from the unkempt garden and gratefully chugged down the water that splashed from the tap and onto his face. The water only seemed to make the pain worse, but it did numb the dryness in his throat and mouth, and swishing it around in his mouth before spitting it out seemed to get rid of the remaining powder. Disgusted at the sight of the foamy white water that left his mouth, Sam certainly preferred that to the red water that he spat out after several rounds of rinsing. His tongue and cheeks were bleeding, and he wouldn't be surprised if his damn esophagus was, too.

Groaning, Sam felt little change in terms of pain, but, as the water turned from deep red to light pink, he quietly walked back inside, his footsteps careful and silent. Making his way upstairs to his bedroom – or more, the empty room with a scabby mattress on the floor that he slept on, Sam was careful not to notify Ted of his presence.

As he lay tiredly in his dirty, old stained mattress, Sam's thoughts once again flickered to images of his forgotten family. The tall, gruff bearded man he once called father, and the handsome, cocky boy he had called brother. Without realizing, Sam's dry cheeks were soon warmed by the familiar trail of hot salty tears running from his eyes. Sam opened himself to the sadness, his sobs fading into silence, heard by nobody but himself, as they had been for almost as long as he could remember.

He missed them, god he missed them. It had been seven years, but not once in that seven years did Sam's hope for them falter. They were coming; his family was coming for him. Of that, Sam was certain.

X


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 **

**X**

Dean was careful not to wake his father when he returned home from his late night stroll. It appeared as though John had not shifted his position and Dean quickly became envious of his ability to sleep without distraction.

Dean's walk had been uneventful, but he had succeeded in clearing his head for the moment, and his tired body called for sleep. Lying down once again, Dean rolled to the side and snuggled his head into the pillow, hoping that somewhere out there, Sam had a warm bed to sleep in and a pillow to lay his head upon.

X

Dean's sleep was interrupted by the rude and intrusive shove he received to his left shoulder.

"Dean, we've got work to do, son" Dean mumbled something under his breath and rolled onto his back, covering his eyes with his right arm, "get a move on Dean, come on."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm up" Dean spoke through his teeth; he never had been good with mornings. Dean glanced at the clock – 10:13am – alright, maybe it was about time he woke up. That late night walk certainly drained him of his energy; Dean hadn't slept this late in a long time. He took a sleepy look around the room, noticing little change other than the few scattered coffee cups around where his father had been working.

After he'd quickly showered, Dean wasn't feeling quite as refreshed as he had hoped, despite his lengthy sleep.

"You want coffee?" he asked John, who now sat on his bed with research papers scattered around himself.

"Yeah, get some breakfast too" he returned, without looking up. Dean swiftly grabbed his keys and wallet and headed out the door, almost overwhelmingly keen for the hot, bitter taste of a good brew.

After successfully picking up two coffees and some sandwiches for breakfast, and managing to smoothly receive the cell number of the cute waitress behind the counter, Dean headed home, ignoring the burn on his tongue when he quickly gulped down the hot beverage. Turning down one of the many back roads that led to the sleazy motel that he and his father called their temporary home, Dean couldn't help but notice the poor condition of the houses along this road and those neighboring.

_Hell, the motels we stay at are the damn Radisson compared to these dumps. _

As his steaming hot coffee spilt onto his fingers when the car bumped over a pothole, Dean noticed that the road didn't seem to be in great condition either.

"Shit" he cursed, pulling over to the side of the road, moving his cup to the cup holder and wiping his hand down on his jeans, his body far too used to injury to be bothered by a bit of coffee. The coffee that had spilt on the seat, well that was another story, there was no way Dean was going to led any harm befall his baby, and so he gingerly wiped down the spilt liquid from the seat.

The car was parked near the end of the street; Dean glanced to the final house on that side of the road, taking in the scrubby, uncared for garden. The paneling on the outside of the house was worn and the paint job faded and peeling off in some sections. The windows were dusty and you could barely see in them, bar one – on the second story of the house, one window was kept spotless and squeaky clean. _Weird, _Dean figured.

The clock now read 10:45, and Dean started up the car once again to head home. Driving away from the house that he surmised could use a little bit of TLC, Dean shot a glance to his rearview window, and, in the distance, he could make out the tall, lanky figure of a teenage boy, seemingly limping out of the house and down the front steps. A worn, yellow backpack was hung loosely on one of his shoulders, and his long, chestnut hair hung almost over his eyes.

_Couldn't be Sammy, _Dean thought to himself, _that would be way too much of a coincidence. _

Still, Dean wished that he had gotten a better look at the boy, who now walked slowly in the direction away from the impala, and eventually was out of sight as Dean turned the corner.

X

"SAM," Ted barked at the sleeping Sam from the doorway to his bedroom, the boy now startled awake by his ridiculously loud call. "Get the hell up and out of bed, now. You still haven't cleaned up the mess from yesterday, and I want some breakfast." Sam, fearful of what may happen should he disobey, quickly stood and pulled on a shirt, before following Ted's slightly overweight frame down the staircase. Ted was mumbling something to himself along the lines of _stupid lazy piece of shit, _but Sam's mind was elsewhere this morning.

While the inside of his mouth and throat still burned with the pain of the ammonia he had swallowed early that morning, Sam was eager to get out of the house. After managing to clean up most of the bloodstain on the carpet, and simply hoping that Ted wouldn't notice the remnants, Sam fixed Ted some breakfast, sneaking a bite or two of a piece of stale bread as he cooked, thankful that Ted's eyes were fixed on the newspaper clippings around him at the table.

He was researching a hunt, something local, vengeful spirit he figured. Some military psycho killing young women at an abandoned house outside of town, the usual. Ted had been working that same case for about two weeks now, and he was really struggling to come up with some answers as to who the hell this guy was. Ted had delegated some of the research to Sam to do about a week ago, but after Ted had knocked him around a bit too much and given him a concussion, Sam was struggling to focus so Ted had to take over again.

In all honesty, Sam hated hunting with Ted. It reminded him of his family. While he'd only known about the existence of the supernatural world and the true occupation of his father for a year when Ted took him from them, he was well aware that his father and brother continued to hunt after he disappeared. Ted told him that he'd met John before, at a place called the roadhouse. Ted explained that this was a place at which hunters often met and discussed cases. But, as Ted had refused to tell Sam any more in regards to his relationship with his father, Sam had stopped asking long ago.

After cleaning up Ted's dishes from breakfast, Sam went to his bedroom and pulled on a clean outfit. Well, as clean as his outfits can get; Ted refuses to wash Sam's clothes, and Sam isn't allowed to mess with Ted's stuff – the washing machine included. So, some nights when Ted was out for long enough, Sam would wash his clothes in the bathtub using soap and water. Sure, he could use the washing machine, but the risks were far lower if he could just tell Ted that he'd had a bath.

After dressing, Sam quickly washed his face in the sink, forcing himself not to open his mouth and look inside, fearful of the sight of his burnt tongue and cheeks.

Sam took a look around the room he called his, gazing at the sodden mattress in the corner of the room on which he slept, the cupboard that held his two pairs of jeans and three shirts. On top of the cupboard sat a notebook and a pen, which Sam quickly threw into his second hand backpack. Slipping into his sneakers, Sam headed down the staircase and, in passing the mirror that hung on the wall next to the stairs, noted the deep purple bruise on his left cheek that Ted had left there last night. Sam figured his back probably looked the same; it ached where Ted had punched him.

Silently, Sam stepped towards the front door and opened it gently, trying to avoid the accusing eyes of Ted. He failed.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Sam's voice was hoarse from his injuries and speaking pained him unimaginably. "School" he quietly responded, hoping that Ted would not force him back inside; he hadn't been to school in about a week, and he was going a little stir crazy.

Not to mention, school meant he was away from Ted.

School meant he could probably steal something to eat from someone else's bag.

"You tell 'em you fell down the stairs, you hear?" Ted ordered, referring to the purpling bruise on Sam's face.

"Yeah" Sam whispered, thanking whoever it was up there that he was allowed to go to school today, slamming the door shut behind him. Excitedly, Sam stumbled down the steps and wandered in the direction of the school, aware that his tardiness would get him in trouble, but just thankful that he could go at all.

In the distance, Sam spotted an old black Chevy Impala. The car looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it, and before he could get a good look, the car was around the corner and out of sight. Sam's mind wondered, thoughts of the car, his home, Ted, his family. God, he wanted to see them so badly. He thought about them the entire walk, what were they doing? Where were they? Who were they with? Were they safe?

Sam carried on his way to school, wondering if his family ever thought of him, too.

X

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Just a quick, huge thankyou to everyone who's given me support so far. This includes everyone who's reviewed, favourited, followed or just simply read this fic. A special thanks to MysteryMadchen, who's continued reviewing throughout and provided me with some great ideas for the story's direction! **

**And don't worry, I wont keep Sammy and Dean away from eachother forever **

**Please keep up the interest, and I hope you enjoy the next chapter!**

**Chapter 4 **

**X**

**One week later .. **

X

Dean calmly looked up from his magazine at the sound of his father closing the motel door behind him. John had left about three hours earlier to have a look around the house outside of town where the spirit had made itself a home, scope the place out, see if he could find any clues as to who this guy was and why he was there. Dean hadn't been too happy about letting John go alone, but John insisted that there wasn't much of a reason for the spirit to attack him now anyway, the freaks generally emerged once they realized you were getting a little closer to sending their sorry asses off the face of the earth.

"How'd it go?" Dean queried, noticing his father's expression of – what was that? Fear? Anger? Nope, confusion. Why the hell was he confused?

"uh…" John's voice trailed off, only sparking Dean's curiosity even further.

"Dad?"

"It uh, it seems like the spirit's … gone." John said, the slight raise in the tone of his voice at the end of the sentence made it sound more like a question.

"Gone? What the hell do you mean it's gone?" 

"I'm not sure. There doesn't seem to be any spirit activity at all, the EMF gave off zip, I tried just about every trick in the book there is to find out if it was still there, but everything came back with nothing. It's like the thing just vanished."

"Huh, maybe it realized we were after it, got its panties all in a bunch and freaked," Dean pointed his index finger and slid it across his throat quickly in a gesture to emphasize his point, "offed itself. Hell, I'd be afraid too, someone who looked like you stepped through my front door." Dean joked, laughing, but when John gave no reaction, he continued, taking a more serious approach this time. "This doesn't make any sense. Can sprits do that? Just disappear? I mean, if they really wanted they could probably just move on themselves couldn't they?"

"If a spirit's truly willing to move on, I've heard that it's possible. But, why would this guy all of a sudden decide to disappear? There've been no more bodies turning up and no other girls have gone missing. I don't see why it'd move on unless it thought it had been avenged or at least heard in _some way_."

"Well, short of sending in a girl who fits this guy's MO as bait, I don't see any other way that we can find out if he's still there or not."

"So what, we just sit around here with our thumbs up our asses waiting to see if another girl gets murdered?" John replied angrily.

"I didn't say that. Listen, if the EMF says there's nothing there, then there's _probably_ nothing there. We should be thankful, something just did our job for us." Dean responded lightly.

"Yeah, or someone."

"You think another hunter finished it off?"

John shrugged. "Makes sense"

"Huh, well, a big thankyou to him. Now let's get out of this place, this town gives me the creeps."

John, still unsure as to whether it was a good idea to leave or not, figured what Dean had said was right. If nothing showed up on the EMF metre, nothing was there. Still, he didn't like leaving a job unfinished; then again, maybe it was finished, just someone else finished it for him.

He sighed, "alright, pack your things, we leave in a half hour."

X

"Sam! Get the hell out here, right now!" Ted's panicked voice echoed up the staircase and into Sam's bedroom from the living room, where Sam had just heard the front door slam shut, shaking the walls of the house. Rushing to attention, Sam threw down the homework he'd been working on for school and raced down the stairs, barely managing to stay standing as his frail body almost collapsed when he stood, his mind flooded by a lightheadedness that three days without food had caused.

Sam's body froze for a split second at the sight before him, Ted was slumped against an armchair in the living room, his hands placing pressure on what seemed to be a very bloody wound on the right side of his forehead. His hands were drenched with dark red blood, his face and the collar of his shirt also. Quickly scanning the remainder of Ted's person, it appeared that his head wound was his only one, and Sam promptly rushed towards the bathroom sink, headed for the first aid kit kept in the cupboard below it. He knew what he was expected to do, this was not the first time Ted had shown up injured.

X

X

Dean was thankful to be back on the road again, hopeful that this time around they'd land in a town a little less dull, maybe a couple more women, hopefully this time a bit better looking than the ones in this dump.

This is where he truly felt at home, here, in the driver's seat of the impala, the only real thing the Winchesters owned, - apart from their weapons and few meager personal possessions – with the windows down, AC/DC blasting on the stereo, putting yet another town in the rearview mirror. The whole scene would have been perfect, if only the youngest member of the family was there. Things just felt empty without Sam; every moment, every second felt incomplete, like something was missing. Dean tried to remember how it was just to feel Sam's presence; memories can flooding back, of Dean in the passenger seat and John driving, looking back on Sam huddled in the backseat, his books and possessions spread all over the place. _Damn, that kid sure loved to read, what a geek. _Dean stopped his thoughts, slightly angry with himself, before correcting his previous thought. _No, he _loves _to read. Stop talkin' about him like he's dead, damnit._

Memories of Sam truly erupted within Dean's mind as they drove past the house that Dean had driven past a week earlier. He'd seen a boy Sammy's age, but that was it. He hadn't even seen his face. Dean knew what was happening, because it never wasn't. He always saw these kids, guys Sam's age, who had the same colour hair as him or something, and Dean immediately jumped to the conclusion that he'd seen his brother. It wasn't like he was crazy or anything, he just really wanted to find Sam, it's not like he can be blamed for that, can he? Regardless, Dean was not ready to make that same mistake he'd made countless times in the past, and he wasn't ready to get his own hopes up when he had no real reason to think this kid was Sam.

Still, Dean didn't take his eyes off the house as they passed, quickly scanning every inch that was visible, hoping that he might get a second glimpse at the kid, put his mind to rest when he saw it wasn't Sam. John didn't fail to notice Dean's strange behavior, either, and quickly started questioning his son.

"Uh, Dean, is something wrong?" John asked, confused, before he too glanced over at the house, following Dean's gaze.

John's voice seemed to break Dean out of his thoughts, interrupting his distant memories of his younger brother. Snapping back to reality, Dean suddenly realized how slow he'd been driving - the car was practically stationary.

"What? Uh, no, everything's fine."

"Dean," John pressed, the tone of that single word communicating effectively to Dean that John was well aware that something was going on.

"Don't worry about it Dad, it's nothing." Dean snapped, taking a final glance at the house in the rearview before he turned into another street.

John figured correctly that whatever was going on in Dean's head had something to do with Sam, and, aware that pressing any further meant that he was stepping into dangerous territory, John dropped it. He had to be careful with Dean when it came to Sam, he could get real sensitive about the topic. Not that he'd ever admit that, but John knew his son well enough to know, and he'd seen it happen a few times, too. Sure, John got pretty soft when Sam became the topic of conversation as well, but not the same way Dean did. Dean and Sam had had a connection that exceeded anything John could have thought possible. His boys were practically inseparable, and John couldn't help but hold the utmost amount of pride for his sons and their relationship. He'd always taught them that nothing was more important than family, and Sam and Dean had showed him that his message truly had gotten through to them.

Of course, this also meant that Dean took Sammy's disappearance harder than he could have imagined. Dean just wasn't the same person John had once known after that night, there was a part of him missing, and that part was Sammy.

X

As Sam ran back to Ted, a thought raced through his mind. _He's injured, vulnerable, distracted. I could do it, right now, I could kill him._

Sam was a little caught up in his fantasy, desperate for revenge against the man who had made his life hell for the past seven years. But, ultimately, Sam's fear of what may happen should his homicidal attempt fail became too much, and he ruled murder out of the equation.

Still, the back of Sam's mind remained captivated with the thought, and he wondered if he was truly capable of taking a human life.

Again.

X

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 **

**X**

_Sioux Falls – 40 miles _

For once, Dean was thankful that he would be stepping out of the impala soon, his thoughts were clouded by a slowly worsening migraine and he longed for Tylenol and sleep. John had assumed the role of driver after Dean first complained about his headache, and Dean now sat slumped in the passenger seat with his head against the window, trying (and failing) to get some rest. He lifted his head when he concluded that he wasn't going to get any sleep in the time it would take to reach Bobby's scrapyard in Sioux Falls, noticing the small patch of window that wasn't draped with condensation where his forehead had rested.

Putting the window down, Dean immediately wound it back up again when the freezing blast of winter wind flew threw the open window and stung the skin on his face. _Definitely not getting any sleep now, _he thought scornfully; Dean always did hate winter, probably because there was nothing worse than being stuck out in the woods all night, trying to track some supernatural freak that wants to eat you for dinner, but you're more worried about the frostbite growing on your fingers and toes. Dean shivered at the thought, he sure as hell hoped that whatever job Bobby had waiting for them at the salvage yard didn't involve laying low in the woods at midnight in the middle of winter.

John must have noticed Dean's shiver, and he swiftly turned up the heat.

"How ya feelin'?" he asked, sounding disinterested as he kept his eyes on the dark, rain soaked tar getting put under the wheels of the impala.

"I'll be fine" Dean started – _ah, the famous Winchesters' 'I'm fine' response, they never can admit to anything short of a lost limb – _"just need to get some rest at Bobby's."

John nodded his head, too tired himself to continue with the conversation. Still, his accumulating worry for his eldest son only seemed to build after observing his deteriorating health. This search for Sammy was really taking it out of him, emotionally _and _physically. For the first time, John wondered if they should continue. Seven years, and nothing to show for it. Surely if Sam was alright he'd have tried to escape, or at least contact them? That is, if he had the chance. John shook his head, in an attempt to literally shake the idea that his youngest might not be okay. Sam had to be okay, he had to, otherwise the last seven years of their lives had been totally wasted. More so than the thought that they could have wasted almost a decade of their lives in searching for somebody who was gone long ago, the thought that John may only have one son almost brought him to tears on the spot. His boy, his Sammy, stolen from him and his short life ended before it was supposed to be, a future that he no longer had. All the possibilities and opportunities that awaited him in the future, stolen from him by whoever – or whatever – did this.

_No, _John thought, _my boy is alive. He has to be. It will destroy us both if he isn't._

John's mind was captivated by memories of Sam. His boys together, or those few moments of just he and Sam, comforting him after a nightmare when he was just a young child, the way he used to call him _"daddy"._

John spent the remainder of the car trip longingly reminiscing upon memories of his youngest son, completely unaware that Dean was doing the exact same.

X

"_Daddy!" Sam exclaimed happily, as he jumped up from the couch and his tiny bare feet pattered quickly along the wooden floor towards the motel room door, the sound repetitive as his miniscule legs fought their hardest to reach the other side of the room as quickly as possible, where his tall, rough looking father stood in the doorway, arms spread wide in anticipation for the greeting he often received when arriving home from a hunt. _

_John's face was lit up by a smile almost as wide as his arms as he watched his adorable five-year-old race towards him gleefully. _

_Sam leapt into his father's strong arms, as he was lifted into a tight embrace and he snuggled into his chest, wrapping his small arms around John's thick neck._

"_Hey buddy" John laughed, tickling Sam's sides, his smile only growing wider at the sound of his boy's high pitched laughter as he squirmed about in his arms. John eyed his eldest son, as the nine-year-old laughed and shook his head at the sight of his little brother tossing and turning while practically squealing with laughter in his father's arms. Stilling slightly, John pulled Sam's pajama shirt back down where it had been pulled up during his tickle attack so as to keep his son as warm as possible – it was a cold autumn night and the motel room didn't have a heater. _

_John gripped Sam around the waist, pulling him up and over his head, wrapping his legs around the back of his neck and seating him upon his shoulders. Sam's hands rested upon the top of John's slightly greying hair, as his father walked towards Dean, who sat on the couch watching cartoons, before ruffling his hair and playfully tossing Sam onto the bed, resuming his tickling until Sam's laughter filled the room. _

Sam snapped awake, having woken himself to the remembered sound of his own laughter some 11 years ago. His body shot up quickly into a seated position. Sam wiped some sweat off his forehead, sighing at the memory that had invaded his sleeping mind.

Before he understood what was happening, tears had begun to escape his eyes and ran down his cheeks, and Sam cradled his head in his hands, sobbing into his palms.

_Why did this happen to me? Why did he have to take me away from them? I want to go home. _

The final thought that had crossed Sam's mind brought him back to the very night that Ted had stolen him from his brother and father.

"_I want to go home," a terrified Sam whimpered in the backseat, wincing at the pain on his head and wiping away the almost dried blood from the remainder of his face. _

"_We are, that's where we're going – home" Ted laughed evilly from the front seat, glancing at Sam curled up in the corner, knees against his chest as he cried. _

"_Please, just let me go home" Sam begged._

"_I told you, we're going home, to your new home. I'm Ted," he laughed, "just call me your new dad." _

"_I want my old daddy," Sam cried, realizing that he hadn't called his father 'daddy' in about two years._

_Ted didn't respond, so Sam just curled into himself tighter and shut his eyes, hoping that he'd somehow wake up and find this had all just been a nightmare. _

X

Dean, after waking and quickly showering, wandered out to the living room of Bobby's home, where he and John stood over his desk, analyzing the research that Bobby had put together earlier.

Dean walked over to join them; seemingly unaware of his presence, John and Bobby's conversation was interrupted by Dean's arrival.

"Morning"

"mornin'" to two older hunters muttered in reply.

Eyeing the newspaper clippings and several open books on lore, a couple describing different aspects of Slavic mythology, Dean spoke, "so what are we dealing with here?"

"Seems to me like it's a…" Bobby picked up one of the books to double check the creature's name, "_rusalki"._

"A what?"

John stepped in to explain, "A rusalki, it's like a sort of sub-species of water spirit. They're female, kids and adults, who've died in the water. They're kind of like sirens; they lure sailors into the water, then drown 'em. Only this one's not going after just sailors, seems any men who go near the water are potential vics."

"Right, so, any idea who this chick is?"

Bobby picked up a small pile of papers and handed them to Dean, "Some. Her name was Veronia Abentine, young woman, lived over in a town called _Lake's Edge _in Minnesota," 

Dean cut in quickly to clarify, "I'm assuming this is where the bodies are turnin' up?" 

"Exactly. Now, records show that Veronia was killed sometime around her nineteenth birthday, which would have been…" Bobby's voice trailed off as he searched through records for a date, clicking his tongue, "Ah, 1943."

"I'm listening," Dean pressed as Bobby discontinued speaking.

"Well, far as I can tell, she killed herself. Threw herself into the lake after her husband died in the war."

"Right, so how come nobody else has noticed people dying in the lake? I mean, she died, what, about seventy years ago now? And she's been killing since then?" 

"Not quite. I can't find anything on deaths in the lake for at least 20 years after she died, then the body count starts."

"Only?" Dean questioned, sensing that Bobby was not including all the information he knew. 

"Only she's only offing people one week of the year, every couple of years."

"I guess that would explain why nobody else has found anything, but why the hell is she only killing for one week at a time?"

"It's not so much how long she's active for that I'm interested in. Every time she kills, it's the exact same week of the year – first week of January. See, Slavic mythology says that the first week of January was called _Rusal'naia_ – Rusalki Week. Says that during this week, and this week only, the creatures leave the water to swing on the branches of trees around the water by night. They used to forbid swimming during the week, said that anyone who went into the water during the week, never came back out."

"So, what, these things only kill one week a year?" 

"No, they kill all year round." Bobby sighed.

"Oh, great" Dean smiled sarcastically, nodding his head.

"They're just more dangerous during this week."

John finally spoke up, after remaining silent for most of the conversation, "And easier to kill."

"Yeah?" Dean queried.

"Well, usually these things don't leave the water, only this week, they come out, like Bobby said. Sit in the trees and wait for someone to come by." John answered. 

"So we can kill them then?"

"S'pose so." 

"How?"

"You gotta keep 'em out of the water, long enough for their hair to dry. Supposedly, you keep 'em out long enough, they die."

"Sounds easy enough." Dean surmised.

"Nothing is ever _easy enough_ for us, Dean." John added, before departing the living room to grab himself a coffee.

X

"Is this really necessary?" Sam asked, eyeing the silver handcuffs that bound his left hand to the inside of Ted's truck.

Ted flashed his evil smile, "Don't want you makin' a run for it should you see someone you know, do we now?" 

"And who do you suppose I'm going to see? My family?" Sam regretted the words before they'd even left his mouth. _Shit, _he knew not the mouth off to Ted.

Ted quickly answered Sam's fears, sending a swift punch right into his nose. Sam grunted and wiped away the blood that flowed from his nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

"I don't care who, because you're not goin' to run, no matter what, got you cuffed in here real good, you're not goin' anywhere." 

Sam sighed as Ted stepped out of the car and disappeared from sight. He watched him walk into the roadhouse in the rearview mirror, noticing a couple of rough looking guys leaving and jumping into their own car. He wondered why Ted was so worried about him seeing someone he knew, was there something Ted knew that he didn't? What if his family was in there?

No way was Sam sitting around when his father and brother could be a couple metres away. Searching the car for something he could use to pick the lock on the handcuffs, he came up with a safety pin, and quickly jimmied the lock, rolling his wrist around to soothe the soreness that being locked up briefly had caused. Looking around once more to check that Ted was not in sight, Sam slipped out of the car and sneaked towards the roadhouse, hoping to god that there was someone in there waiting for him, he had no idea what he was going to do if there wasn't.

X

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 **

**X**

Sam scurried behind a bush to the side of the roadhouse at the sound of laughter escaping through the open doorway. A man and a woman stepped out, both clearly drunk, the man with his hand around the woman's waist. Relieved that the sound had not been Ted, Sam sighed and stood form his crouch.

_What am I doing? Oh god, this is so stupid. Ted's going to catch me again, he always catches me. _

Sam noticed a window around the corner, and he quickly sprinted over to it, crouching again below it after ensuring that nobody was around to see him. Slowly, Sam peeked in the window at the activity inside.

The bar was littered with people, some Sam was certain were hunters – sometimes you could just tell by the way they looked – and others looked like normal people. Sam spotted Ted seated at a table in the distance, his back towards the window through which Sam looked; Ted was accompanied by two other men, who also looked an awful lot like hunters. Sam didn't recognize them.

Of one thing Sam was certain, his family wasn't in there.

_Oh god._

Now what was he going to do? Nobody was in there to help him - hell, he didn't even know anybody in there. He'd have to make it back to the car, lock himself back up, Ted would never know.

Sam stopped. He couldn't do it; he couldn't keep living like this. He shouldn't have let himself get his hopes up; he truly thought he was finally going to see them again. __

They're not here, they didn't come for you. They're probably not even looking for you anymore. Grow up. 

Disappointment turned to absolute dread, and Sam dropped to the ground in a heap, not even bothering to hide the fact that he was balling his eyes out. Suddenly, Sam was startled back to reality by the sound of more people leaving the bar. He wiped his face, sniffled and squashed himself up against the wall, slowly crawling along until he could see around the corner.

Thankfully, it wasn't Ted – lucky. Two men, looking an awful lot like hunters, walked side by side towards what Sam assumed was their truck. Behind them, another man, looking like just as much of a hunter as the others, trailed along, chatting to somebody on the phone. All of a sudden, the man – who'd probably had a few too many drinks – dropped his phone, and, as he turned around and knelt to pick it up, shot a glance Sam's way.

Terrified, Sam quickly ducked back behind the safety of the wall, hoping to god that this guy didn't see him. Too afraid to move for a moment, Sam sat there, frozen, with his eyes open wide. When nothing happened, Sam tried to calm himself, and slowly edged his way back towards the corner of the wall. As he did so, however, he practically rammed his head into the jeaned leg of the very man who'd seen him just before. Gasping loudly, Sam looked up at the confused and slightly worried face of the man who'd dropped his phone.

"You right there kid?" the man asked, sounding a little amused, his eyebrows forming a 'V', highlighting his confusion.

Sam gasped again as the man spoke, covering his face to protect himself from the approaching attack. When it didn't come, however, Sam fearfully and slowly looked back up at the man, who hadn't moved. Before he could say anything more – and he looked like he was about to – Sam bolted. Not caring if anyone were to see him, Sam sprinted around the back of the roadhouse and almost did a full circle until he was back at the truck. Diving into the passenger seat, he quickly cuffed himself back in, sinking further into the seat incase the man were to see him again.

Thankfully, it seemed he hadn't been followed, and, looking back, Sam noticed the same figure that he'd previously been face-to-face – or more so face-to-shin – with fading away into the distance, not before looking back once more, presumably for Sam.

After about ten minutes, Sam felt a little better, and, confident that not only the man was gone, but that Ted would have no way of knowing that he had left the car in the first place, he settled. As he sat in the car in total silence, however, a lone thought entered his mind.

_That guy looked familiar. _

X

Ted took another swig from the beer bottle held tightly within his fist, keeping his eye on the woman by the pool table who was returning his flirtatious winks.

"Listen man, I don't know if I can believe it until I see it." Ted's new business associate, Russell, said from the other side of the table.

"Yeah, how are we supposed to know if this is the real deal or not?" Russell's friend, who's name Ted had forgotten already, added.

"You really think I'd have wasted all these years of my life on some stupid fantasy? No, this kid's the real deal, trust me." Ted barked back.

"How do you know?" Russell asked.

"I have my sources. Nothing you need to concern yourself with." 

"Alright, so, who is the kid anyway?"

Ted leant forward and gestured for the other two men to do the same, before he spoke, almost in a whisper.

"You guys know John Winchester?" 

"Yeah, we've heard of him." both men replied, nodding.

Ted looked around suspiciously, "It's his boy." 

"One of the Winchester boys? You're kidding me." the unknown man asked, shocked.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Ted responded.

"No shit," Russell laughed, sitting back in his chair and taking another sip of his beer. "

"No shit." Ted responded after a moment of silence.

"Alright, you're tellin' me this kids the real deal, I wanna see him in action. Can that be arranged?" Russell asked.

Ted sighed, "yeah, tomorrow night, nine o'clock, we'll be at the sunshine motel over the other side of town. Trust me, man, you're gonna wanna see this."

Russell stood up, quickly followed by his friend; he placed a bill down on the table, "see you then." Ted nodded in reply, waiting a further ten minutes after the men had already left to head back out to his truck.

X

Sam was beginning to drift off to sleep against the window by the time Ted returned to the truck. The sound of the door slamming closed as Ted threw himself into his seat startled him awake; Sam could smell liquor on Ted's breath, and he feared what Ted might do when they arrived at the motel in this state – Ted's beatings were far worse after he had been drinking.

In fear, Sam's hands balled into fists and he squinted his eyes closed, letting out a shaky breath before mentally trying to calm himself down. Sam got a lot of practice at this kind of thing; he often had to conduct himself so that his emotions did not overwhelm him during his time with Ted. The way Ted acted towards Sam, and the things he said about his family, often meant Sam was leaving a situation absolutely boiling with anger and rage, and emotions like those are difficult to conceal. Sam was aware that Ted was far stronger than he, and knew that anger would get him nowhere – Ted would win, he always won. And so, Sam would often have to calm himself down, repress the anger that boiled within him, in order to stay alive.

Anger was not the only emotion Sam was forced to restrain; Ted controlled Sam based on one factor that he knew he could influence – his fear.

Sam was terrified of Ted, and Ted knew that. Years of relentless beatings, starvation, torment, and emotional and physical torture – all this while held in captivity – had made Ted Sam's ultimate fear.

So, here Sam sat, forcing down the fear that was near bubbling out of him at the thought of an alcohol influenced Ted taking out his anger on him, as though he were his own personal punching bag.

His thoughts were interrupted by Ted's rough hands gripping him tightly by the knee and pulling his leg up harshly. "What's that?" Ted pointed with a firm hand towards the now drying mud that gathered around the edges of Sam's boots.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit._

"Uh…" Sam started, unable to think of a plausible answer.

"You ran, didn't you boy?" Ted furiously interrogated Sam, "What'd you do? Huh? Call your daddy? What?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam's shaky voice answered back.

Ted muttered something harsh under his breath. And started the engine and steered viciously towards the motel room, the silence in the car ringing in Sam's ears, only seeming to worsen his fears – Sam knew what was coming.

Back at the motel room, Ted ferociously attacked Sam until he was beaten from consciousness. When he awoke later that night, Ted was seated at the dining table, watching something on the television, though upon noticing Sam's approaching consciousness, he had switched it off.

"Get up, Sam, it's time for you to do your training, I've someone who wants to see what you can do."

X

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hi everyone, I've added in this A/N so that I can respond to some reviews that don't allow private messaging, so here goes – **

**In response to user "Sarah" – **

**First off, thanks for reading and taking the time to review! **

**In the previous chapter, yes, Ted was injured and Sam did consider murdering him in order to escape, but he did almost immediately expel this thought out of his fears for what Ted may do to him should his attempt fail. And yes, the scene has in fact moved forward in time, as I have done throughout. Evidently Ted has recovered from his already reasonably minor injuries, and this time shift has been put in place so that I can continue with the story without including unnecessary (and simply boring information.) If the time had shifted a significant amount of time (or if the fact that time had moved forward was considered integral to the story in some way), however, I would have included some information as to the amount of time skipped (eg. '**_**one week later' **_**etc). I did not do this because a) the time skipped has not been significant, and b) the fact that time has skipped is not important. I will generally assume that my readers are advanced enough to follow when I do skip certain periods of time, rather than just following on from previous scenes in sequence.**

**Yes, Ted did acknowledge the possibility that someone in the roadhouse may recognize and assist Sam. In regards to this, you said **_**"**__**why take him with him in the first place? why not lock him away at the house or something?**_** ",Ted and Sam are currently on their way to a motel, the roadhouse is in fact on the way to this motel. For this reason, Ted would not lock Sam up in their house, as he intends to take Sam with him. The reason for this is soon to be revealed, though based on my previous chapter readers can probably make a reasonable assumption. Also, as a causation of Ted's fears that somebody inside may recognize Sam, he did actually **_**handcuff **_**Sam to the car, so it's not as though he took limited measures in preventing Sam from escaping (though of course, that didn't seem to work, he is a Winchester after all). You then said "**_**if you are trying to get Sam to meet Dean, you gotta try and make it as convenient and as realistic as possible, don't force scenes on us to get them to meet" – **_**in all honestly, I was more than a little confused by this comment. Firstly, you are correct in saying that, yes, I do need to try to make any interaction between Sam and Dean as realistic as possible. Sam and Dean have still yet to interact, so I'm a little puzzled as to what exactly you mean by "don't force scenes on us to get them to meet". This scene was actually integrated in order to provide readers with a possible motive as to why Ted has kidnapped and held Sam captive, and moreso provides insight into what kind of character Ted is, as well as display the ways in which Sam's situation has impacted on his character. You followed this by saying **_**"It would have been so much better if Dean and John decided to check the suspicious looking house in the previous chapter and found Sam there than for Ted to be absolutely stupid and take him to the road house like this". **_**Now, in the statement previous to this, you said that I need to make any occurrences as realistic as possible. I think it would be highly unrealistic for Dean and John to search a random house on the street, simply because Dean had spotted a boy who would have been Sam's age outside of it. The house was in no way "suspicious", so, in order to maintain the realism, I opted not to send John and Dean into the house – one of my main goals in writing this peace is to ensure that the situations are as realistic as possible, and to send Dean and John into the house with little reason for suspicion would actually decrease this. Again, I'm not sure why you think Ted was stupid to take Sam to the roadhouse – he was handcuffed to the inside of his car after all! Not to mention, Ted seemed to have organized some sort of rendezvous regarding Sam, and that required Sam's presence nearby, so taking Sam to the roadhouse was necessary, and, in my opinion, Ted's actions were in no way stupid – he took precautions. Lastly, you said, "**_**Again now that Sam is free from his cuff, why not run away? escape Ted once and for all and start searching for his family on his own?" **_**– Sam has been held in captivity since he was nine years old, for seven years, with little interaction with anyone other than his captor. As a result, inevitably Sam has issues with socialization, and interaction, not to mention his terrible fear of Ted (and for that matter, the outside world). It has been implied that Sam does not escape (or cross Ted in any way) out of fear of what may happen should he fail – and as you can imagine, Sam's confidence has been more than hindered by his situation. It is because of this that Sam does not attempt to escape, and, in addition, this specific situation is not ideal for an escape – Ted is not far away, and he is inside with several other men who you can imagine aren't too friendly either. Sam has extremely limited knowledge on the outside world, and, in regards to searching for his family on his own, frankly he wouldn't know where to begin or how to go about it.**

**I hope that this overly lengthy response has cleared things up for you, thanks again for reading, and hopefully you can enjoy the story more with your refreshed knowledge. **

**In response to "souless666" – **

**Nice observation, you're only one who picked it! It seems Sam's situation has certainly led to something along those lines! **

**Now that's a giant A/N ! I had a lot to clear up!**

**On a general note, thankyou to everyone following and reading the story! Hope you enjoy the next update **

**X**

**Chapter 7 **

**X**

Dean cocked his head slightly to the side at the sound of his father's footsteps approaching beside him. His grip on his shotgun tightened as he prepared himself, letting his index finger rest motionless on the trigger.

"Ready?" John whispered

"Let's do this" Dean responded quietly, sounding almost a little excited.

The two hunters stealthily approached the riverbed, walking almost in a crouch alongside the dark water. The moonlight above them reflected off the water in the form of a bright shimmer, providing them with their only light. Ahead of them, the distant sound of a woman's singing gathered their attention, and with a glance, the two nodded and continued with purpose. Dean held down a shiver as he trudged along behind John, thankful that the skies were cleared of rain. John silently gestured for Dean to approach around the side, and Dean swiftly moved into the trees as he walked now parallel to his father.

The sound of the song drew closer, and, had Dean not been aware that the voice was that of a murderous spirit, he'd have taken notice to the true beauty of the sound. The woman's voice was pure and sweet, and the soft femininity that laced the song actually soothed him, though he couldn't decipher the words. Drawing himself away from the distraction, Dean noticed the voice was now only meters away, and, putting the plan into motion, Dean brought his weapon up towards his face and directed it towards his target ahead of him.

Slowly emerging from amongst the trees, Dean caught sight of the tall, thin body of a young woman seated below a tall oak tree. She was unclothed, and her long, wavy brunette hair hung loosely over her chest and fell into her lap. She sat with her back rested against the trunk at the base of the tree, with her left leg flat on the ground in front of her and her right brought up so that her knee was at her chest. She continued her song carelessly, taking no notice of the two hunters who secretly approached her. As she sang, she fondled with a couple strands of her hair, looking longingly into the water from which she had previously emerged.

Dean, still vaguely hidden behind a few moss-ridden trees, watched the woman as she sang, quietly waiting for his father to make the first move. As he waited, he found his own gaze falling towards her chest, eyeing the curves of her body lustfully before he quickly snapped himself out of his trance, soundlessly lambasting himself for allowing such a thing to distract him from a hunt. Not soon after, John's figure emerged from the trees adjacent to him, his back to Dean. John moved slowly and silently, ensuring that he did not alert the rusalki to his presence.

The woman's eyes slowly moved from the water to meet John's, though her singing continued. A little confused, Dean wondered if she had spotted John or was too far into her own mind to notice him. A slight curve on her thick lips indicated that she had in fact noticed John's presence, as she narrowed her eyes and smiled gently. John's body stilled, and he no longer edged towards the creature. Dean, curious as to why his father had stopped in his tracks, did not move himself, not willing to alter the plan any further. Dean's worry increased as he witnessed John's arm slowly fall to his side as he lowered his weapon. As his mind gradually pieced together what was happening, Dean failed to notice as John edged towards the woman, who now gracefully stood and moved into the water.

Upon realizing that John was now under the rusalki's spell, Dean quickly jogged from the trees and stepped towards the two, the woman now ankle-deep in the water – and John not too far from the water's edge.

"Hey, bitch! Why don't you pick on someone your own age, huh?" Dean teased sarcastically, taking the creature by surprise as he gripped her tightly by the roots of her knotted hair, dragging her from the water and out towards the forest as she shrieked. As the woman's song ended, John quickly snapped back into lucidity, and, shaking his head to clear his mind, raised his weapon and followed Dean into the trees. "goin' after old men, ah now that's just creepy!" Dean laughed, the woman's long, slender fingers clawing helplessly at his hands tangled deep within her hair. Dean snickered at the sound of his father's angry huff behind him at his words, his smile fading as they reached the impala.

Ignoring the woman's hopeless resistance, Dean quickly, with the assistance of his father, cuffed the rusalki to the car door.

"So, what now?" Dean sighed, crossing his arms and trying to awkwardly avert his gaze from the woman's naked body in the presence of his father.

John, apparently doing the exact same, looked up into the moonlight, clearing his throat in embarrassment. "We wait," he responded, shooting a quick glance in her direction before moving away to take a seat on the ground.

Dean followed, blocking out the woman's pleas for help as he sat next to his father.

"Old man, huh?" John joked, Dean's laughter breaking away the silence between the two.

X

Sam sat with his knees against his chest as the hot water from the showerhead above him pelted down onto the top of his head, the water washing away the remainder of the blood below his nose in a diluted stream of pinkish-red water. The last training session had really taken it out of him, and, as his mind was strained far too much, his nose had bled in accompaniment with a blinding migraine. Sam looked up, opening his mouth to drink in the clean water – he was dying from thirst. The warm water still stung the interior of his mouth slightly upon contacting with the tender wounds that were burnt into his cheeks and throat. The burns on his tongue had finally healed, much to Sam's satisfaction.

Sam stood and switched off the water, weary of staying in any longer than a few minutes while Ted was in the hotel room. As he stepped out, Sam dried himself and eyed the fading bruises on his face and chest, not missing the fresher, darker coloured bruises that Ted had applied the night previous. Covering his lower half with the towel wrapped around his waist, Sam wandered out of the room and towards his bed in the far corner, where his small backpack containing his clothing was.

As he exited, Sam realized that there was more than just Ted's person present. Two other men – Sam recognized them as the same men from the roadhouse with whom Ted was seated – sat at the table with Ted, sipping on their beers. Sam stopped dead in his tracks, as all eyes in the room were moved onto him.

"That's him?" One man asked, running his hand through non-existent hair across his bald, tattooed scalp.

"That's him. Sam, this is Russell and his friend, uh…" Ted started, awkwardly looking towards the other man, who was far scrawnier and younger than the man he called Russell.

The man cleared his throat, "Dan, my name's Dan."

"Uh, yeah. Sam, they're here to see what you can do. Hurry up and get dressed so you can show 'em."

Sam nodded and quickly walked over to his bag, collecting up his clothes and making his way back to the bathroom. Looking over, Ted and Russell were now involved in conversation again. Dan's eyes, however, remained fixed on Sam, and damn if Sam didn't think his eyes were moving down his body. Whatever this guy had going on, Sam didn't like it, and he uncomfortably moved into the bathroom a little faster now, almost slamming the door shut behind him. Sam sighed and dressed himself, before he moved back out into the room.

"Alright," Ted sighed, "Sam, over here, now." He snapped his fingers and pointed sternly towards the ground in front of him; Sam quickly obeyed, walking with speed to where Ted had directed him, nervously tapping his fingertips against his hips. Despite his nervousness, Sam didn't fail to notice that Dan's eyes were still firmly fixed on him; he avoided eye contact.

Ted motioned for the other two men to stand behind him, and, as they did so, he grabbed Sam by his bruised shoulder and harshly forced him forward.

"Ok Sam, you know what to do."

Sam nodded sadly, and brought his arms up to the side of his head, pushing both of his index fingers into either side of his head, on his temples. Focusing all his energy on the empty beer bottle on the table, Sam held one thought in his mind – _move. _As he willed the bottle to shift, Sam's pulse sped up and his heart raced in his chest. The other men looked on in anticipation, Russell shooting a questioning glance in Ted's direction when nothing happened. Before he could speak, however, the bottle on the table slid from one end to the other with speed, forced to the very edge of the table by Sam's own mind. Sam let out the breath he'd been holding, dropping his hands from his head.

"Holy shit!" Russell exclaimed, laughing and slapping Ted on the shoulder. Ted laughed in return, as did Dan. Sam, the only silent one in the room, looked to the ground, ashamed with himself for what he'd done.

Apparently encouraged by his new friends' response to Sam's ability, Ted walked over to the bedside table and brought back the bible from within the draw. Placing it on the table where the beer bottle had been, he looked at Sam threateningly, as if to warn him what would happen if he was unable to move the object. When Sam successfully moved the bible as well, receiving the same response as earlier, Ted was only excited further. Happily trotting over to the bedside table again, he found nothing, and, shrugging, picked up the table itself, carrying it over and setting it down next to the dining table.

"Alright, go ahead." Ted pressed as Sam looked on in horror.

"But, I've never moved something that big before! I cant-" Sam started, his voice terrified and begging.

"Shut-up, and move the damn table" Ted interrupted, his voice so threatening that Sam almost whimpered in fear.

Trembling, Sam returned his fingers to his temples, willing with all his energy the table to move. When it didn't budge, Sam tried harder and harder, his entire body shaking as he tried unsuccessfully to shift the object. Sam felt the warm trail of blood leaking from his nose, and his mind ached with his now intensified migraine. Finally, the table was knocked to the side and fell at Sam's feet. Relieved, Sam dropped his hands from his head and fell to his knees, his hands fell to the ground in front of him as he fought to keep himself from collapsing completely. Drops of blood fell from his nose and dripped onto the linoleum beneath him as he drew deep breaths in and out, wiping away the sweat on his forehead.

None of the men in the room reacted to Sam's collapse – not that he'd expected them to – and Russell turned away from Sam, gripping Ted by the shoulder and laughing even more.

"Amazing, just amazing!" he smiled, Ted returning a toothy grin. Russell said something to Ted about finishing up their business, and the two stepped outside.

Gradually calming himself, Sam coughed a few times before wiping at the blood on his chin. He sat back, sighing, before he realized, he was now in the room with Dan, alone.

X

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 8

**Hi everyone. So, a huge sorry on my part for the time it took me to update. Lots of busyness in the real world, coupled with some severe writer's block led to a bit of a struggle in my usually prompt updating. **

**Just a quick response to a review, I hopefully this will clarify things for anyone else who's confused. **

"_**So, Sam was kidnapped seven years ago, and Dean is five years older than Sam, and Sam was kidnapped when he was 9- This means that Dean was 14 when Sam was kidnapped, and if Dean is 17 years old now, then shouldn't Sam have been kidnapped 3 years ago instead of 7? It's not a big deal, just something I noticed :P I'm only on chapter 2 but I am LOVING it so far and am really excited to read on! :)"**_

**Sam was kidnapped when he was nine, and Dean is FOUR years older than Sam, so he was thirteen at the time. Dean is currently 20 years old (not seventeen) and Sam 16 – meaning Sam has been gone for seven years. Not sure where you got that idea, hope I didn't include any misleading information! Thanks again for reading. **

**Enjoy the update everyone!**

**X**

**Chapter 8**

Sam weakly looked up at the tall, skinny man who loitered around the other side of the room. Dan was reasonably young, maybe 30 years old; his hair was jet black, and his chin was layered with a thin sheet of prickled stubble of the same color. His jaw was weak, and his body quite thin, but he still looked as though he could pull himself through a fight, assuming his competitor was much the same size as him – the same size as Sam.

Sam was strikingly thin, reflective of his years of going sometimes days on end without food. Despite the arduous physical activity that Sam occasionally participated in while involved in hunts with Ted, Sam was extremely weakened due to his poor physical maintenance throughout his captivity. No amount of running for his life from werewolves, pulling himself through an attack from _very_ vengeful spirits and copious one-on-one brawls with just about every supernatural being known to the hunting world could cancel out Sam's poor condition. Sam was not allowed the luxury of medicines when he was ill; the majority of his ailments caused by Ted himself anyway. He was weak.

Ted had little concern for Sam's health, labeling him as just another thing to be hunted.

When Ted had explained to Sam his abilities – while at first Sam had just put it down to Ted's unstable mental condition, which he was still certain of – it soon became undeniable that he was, in fact, correct. Sam _was _different. He could do things, things that nobody else could. At least, as far as he knew, he was the only one. Ted didn't care too much about ensuring Sam was well informed on the topic. He told Sam what he figured was probably the bare minimum. Ted did, however, make it well known to Sam that he was nothing more than a monster, a beast, a savage, whatever you want to call it – he was, all things aside, a dangerous creature that was, despite what Sam may think, destined for evil.

Ted made it no secret that Sam was worthy of nothing more than a silver bullet to the heart, maybe decapitation, possibly incineration? Whatever it was, Ted didn't know. He had no idea was exactly it was that Sam was; let alone how to kill it. Besides, Sam could be of some use, at least until his hellish side made an emergence. As of right now, Sam seemed harmless enough, simply a developing monster. And until Sam _was _developed, he could be useful, at least until it came time to kill him. So, Ted did exactly that, put Sam to use, or more, put his abilities to use.

Sam had to physically shake his head to stop the flow of his thoughts. Reminding himself of the possible danger he was in, Sam wiped away the blood that hadn't yet dried on his chin with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. His heavy, labored breathing only deepened and sped up in his fear. There was something about the look in this guy's eye that he _really _didn't like. As Dan slowly advanced, taking a couple steps in Sam's direction, Sam countered his movements by shifting backwards on his butt, pushing himself back with his feet. Dan noticed the movement, and a slight smile curved upwards on either edge of his thin lips, his eyes narrowed.

He moved faster now, with purpose. Dan's steps were large, his long legs clearing the distance with more speed than Sam could, sliding around on his backside. Before he knew it, Dan towered over Sam, looking down over his long nose, his own breathing heavy with anticipation and excitement.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, trying to hide the fear in his own voice with a false tone of aggression. Dan didn't respond immediately, just continued looking down at Sam, a low growl eventually making itself into a deep, quiet snicker.

Sam was more than a little discomforted by the man's strange laughter, and he quickly slid back once more before standing, the top of his head reaching the height of the man's chin.

"What do you want?" Sam asked impatiently, starting to feel a little more irritated than afraid – he'd seen a lot in his time, and this weirdo was starting to get on his nerves now.

Dan remained silent for a moment, before he reached his hand behind his back. Sam's observant eyes, trained both from years of hunting, as well as looking out for his abusive kidnapper and keeper, almost immediately noticed the movement, and, weary of what he could not see, Sam stepped back defensively.

His fears were met, when Dan slowly pulled a thick, shining hunting knife, looking freshly sharpened and exceedingly dangerous, out from behind him. His grip on the knife handle was strong, and his bony knuckles were colored a firm shade of white.

Sam gasped at the sight, before holding his breath and fisting his own knuckles. 

"Stay away from me, Ted's right outside." Sam warned. 

"You think Ted gives two shits about you?" Dan laughed.

Sam's eyes narrowed and his jaw quivered, "I think he'll be plenty pissed if he finds you with a knife against his damn property's throat."

"_Property?" _Dan mocked, "You're nothing but a damn monster to the guy. He wants you dead as much as the next guy" the man lifted the knife a little higher, tilting his head before he smiled and taunted, "maybe even as much as me."

At that moment, Dan lunged at Sam, elbowing an unprepared Sam in the face, knocking him to the side, but Sam kept his footing, determined not to let this guy get the better of him. Sam grunted at the impact, but swiftly regained his composure before trying to make a run for the front door – sure, Ted didn't exactly scream _Safety, _but Sam figured Ted provided a hell of a lot more security than Dan right now. Sam's movements were noticed and quickly countered, as Dan shot the knife forwards in an attempt to stab Sam right there. Sam avoided the knife's penetration, but not without copping a deep laceration to the right side of his chest as he tried to run, his shirt now ripped where a thick line of blood formed and traced along the length of the slash, before trickling down his torso. The sharp, deep pain of the wound was pushed into the back of his mind, he may have avoided the knife then, but he was not yet out of danger.

Dan was not discouraged by his failed attempt in the slightest, seeming only more determined to end Sam now. A violent growl sounded deep in his throat, and his jawbones tightened and quivered through the skin. Sam, powered by the brief surge of adrenaline that flowed through him following his sustained injury, took advantage of Dan's momentary fury. Throwing a sharp jab straight into Dan's nose, knocking him to the ground, Sam made a run for it once again, sure that this time, he was safe.

Of course, he was wrong, was he ever right? Ted tightly gripped Sam's ankle with one hand, pulling him to the ground in a movement faster than the eye could follow. Sam landed on the hard ground with a _thump, _grunting as the air was forced out of his winded lungs. Coughing, Sam turned himself over onto his back, his mind willing his body to get up and run, but he found himself unable to move. Laying there, clutching his winded front with both arms, Sam gulped in what little air he could, a sense of suffocation only sending him further into a panic.

Dan laughed cruelly, standing over Sam once again before squatting over his body. Clicking his tongue and sarcastically shaking his head, Dan spoke, "shouldn't have done that little Sammy, now I don't really feel like making this a real pleasant experience for you."

Sam winced at the man using the nickname he remembered his father and brother used to call him. Thoughts of his family crossed his mind, he was surely going to die right now, and he'd never see them again. "I doubt my enjoyment was really at the front of your mind in the first place," Sam heaved sarcastically, his lips forming a snarl in rage at the man who was soon to end his life.

Dan laughed – god, Sam hated that laugh – and moved the knife to Sam's throat. Sam held his breath, lifting his chin to try to avoid the sharp object that slowly cut into the soft skin of his neck. He could feel a warm, thin trickle of blood trailing down the sides of his neck, but knew that this was not enough to kill him.

Sam grunted at the pain, as Dan took pleasure in the slow, subtle sideways movements of his hand that drew the knife against Sam's throat left and right, gradually cutting into his skin deeper and deeper. This was not how he would kill the boy, but who said he couldn't enjoy himself first? This was, after all, the one thing that could truly satisfy his desires – blood, pain and death. Not his of course, but someone else's, at his own hands? Now that was what he was built for.

As Dan drew the knife away, having to pull it out of the reasonably deep crevice that he'd cut into Sam's skin, Sam took his chance to speak. "Why are you doing this?" he asked pleadingly, hoping that he could stall him, hopeful that Ted and Russell would step in any moment and stop Dan. Unless of course, they were in on this; wouldn't seem unlikely.

"You're a monster, kid. You may not look it right now, but that's what you are. See what you just did over there? That aint human. You're nothin' more than a monster in false packaging, like a shifter, or a vessel. You'll kill, I know you will."

"You don't know that!" Sam almost begged, quickly moving his palms to his throat when Dan fully withdrew the knife in an attempt to dull the pain and stop the bleeding.

"Oh but I do. You see, kid, I heard about you a long time ago. Then I came across someone – something – a while back, got to talkin', well, more, the thing got to talkin' after I doused it in a couple liters of holy water." He laughed almost longingly, ravishing himself in the memory before extinguishing the distraction. "Told me all about you when I asked, who you were, who you were with, what you could do. Now sure, all that was interesting, but then it told me what you were_ gonna _do, you know, in the future." He shook his head, "shit, all I can say is it's a good thing I found you. Killin' you, it'll probably be the single most important job I've worked in my entire career. I'll be a hero."

Sam was speechless, no way this knew the future, there was no way Sam could do anything that bad, right?

"No…I...I" Sam's confused mind failed to formulate an effective sentence; he just couldn't absorb what he'd heard. Sure, this guy might be crazy, or wrong, but he sure sounded certain. Whatever had happened, this guy believed that Sam was destined for something real bad.

"Enough talk, I've got a job to finish" Dan said, before readying his knife to lunge into Sam's flesh.

Sam wasn't ready to die, no way, not now, not without seeing his family at least once more. Ignoring the pain, and the lightheadedness that had probably resulted from a combination of his blood loss and the heavy information lay upon him, Sam sprung into action, trying to roll to the side to escape the fast approaching knife.

Too slow.

The knife dug into Sam's side as he moved, plunging deep into the flesh of the left side of his lumbar region. Sam loudly grunted, it felt like barbed wire was being pulled right through his side. Dan had missed his initial target, hoping to end Sam is one swift knife to the heart, but his movement had thrown him off balance, and his target had moved position.

Sam felt a wave of nausea overcome him, but he swallowed the vomit back down his throat. In a brief moment of shock, Sam looked down, eyeing the protruding knife handle, the remainder of the weapon fixed into the flesh of his body. Dan had been thrown to the ground by Sam's sudden movement, but he was quickly recovering and standing back up. Sam took advantage of the moment, and, squinting his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, he gripped the knife handle, the touch sending waves of sharp pains through his body, and, yelping in pain, he slid the knife out of his own body and dug it into Dan's.

Dan was taken aback by the situation; his chest was now covered in a thick coating of dark red blood that stemmed from the knife wound on the left side. He looked into the eyes of his attacker; fearful, watery green eyes looked back at him, but the unmistakable sliver of rage that shimmered in the eyes of the boy flashed to and fro, as Sam pulled back the knife and repeated the movement three times.

Dan, now sporting three deep knife wounds to the chest, dropped to his knees, groaning, before his fell forward, dead.

Sam stood over the body, stunned – he had done this. Ended a life.

Unwelcome memories flooded his mind before he shook them away and snapped back into a stable state of mind. He wasn't stupid, if the other two hunters returned he knew what this would look like, this would not appear to be self-defense.

He knew what would happen if they saw.

Sam tucked the knife into the back of his jeans before rushing to his bag; he didn't have long, he needed out, quick.

Throwing his backpack onto his shoulders, Sam speedily threw on some dirty socks and his sneakers before he made his way to the door. He stopped with his hand firmly planted on the handle. The approaching voices of Ted and Russell drew closer. _Shit shit shit._

Sam panicked, what now?

He looked around the room desperately, spotting the small window on the side wall, just above his own bed. This was his last chance, no time to waste. Sam sprinted to the bed, jumping up on the mattress, wincing at the pain that the movement caused. The window was unlocked, and Sam slid the screen open, cursing when he noticed the mesh screen on the outside. The voices of the other two hunters were become louder now. This was it, do or die. Sam held his hand over the wound on his abdomen, preparing himself for what he knew would cause unbelievable pain. He pulled his left leg up and kicked strongly at the flyscreen, knocking it away in one fast movement. Turning, he glanced at the body of Dan once more, when he noticed the turning door handle. Within seconds, Ted and Russell will have returned and discovered the body. Sam would not be there to see it.

He dived out the window, thankful that the crappy motel had only one floor. Landing on his feet, Sam steadied himself and ran for it, sprinting faster than he ever had before, Sam sped towards wherever he could go, each step putting a grateful distance between he and the motel. His breathing was loud and heavy, and he could sense the rusty taste of blood in his mouth. The pain was extraordinary, his neck was nearly totally numb now, and his chest throbbed, but the pain in his abdomen was overwhelming. He hadn't the time for that now, though.

He had to get away.

Sam ran, faster than he ever had before, with no destination in mind. _As long as it was away from them_, he thought. Tears ran down Sam's face, tears of terror and pain and regret and anger and relief.

After several minutes Sam turned to find nobody following him, thankfully. He did not stop, however, determined to put as much distance between he and the others as possible. As he ran, the sound of his own quickened footsteps intruded on his mind. The only other sounds were those of distant traffic and far away activity. Sam relished in the silence, before it was once again interrupted. This time, by the sound of his own relieved and vigorous laughter.

He made it, he'd escaped.

He was free.

**TBC**


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: Can't apologize enough for how long this updates taken. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me – trust me, I know how annoying a bad updater is. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and don't worry, the reunion is approaching! **

**X**

**Chapter 9 **

"Yeah?" John's gruff voice impatiently asked as he whipped open his cell phone and pressed it against his ear.

"John? John Winchester?" the slightly less harsh sounding man on the other end of the line spoke.

"Who's askin'?" John returned, gesturing angrily at Dean to hurry himself up and get his ass to the impala.

"It's Caleb, man."

"Caleb? Holy hell, haven't heard from you in the best part of half a year" John laughed through the phone, glad to hear that his old friend was safe for now.

Caleb laughed briefly in return, but his mind was elsewhere. "s'been too long, old man. How's that boy of yours?"

John glanced over at Dean from his where he was positioned, leaning tiredly against the side of the impala. Dean was confidently leant over the reception desk, propped up on his elbows, his position almost a mirror image of the girl across from him. He was gently swirling the receptionist's blonde curls in his fingers as she laughed a ditsy giggle. He was enjoying his farewell with the pretty young receptionist a little too much for John's likings – they were already running late.

He sighed, "hardly a boy anymore Caleb. He's doin' good, all things considered." John's tone quickly turned darker towards the end of the sentence; his inability to escape thoughts of the misfortune their family had suffered seemed overwhelming at times.

"What about your other boy? Still havin' no luck?" Caleb cautiously asked, weary of discussing the sensitive topic with John.

John hesitated and sighed, "nothin'." He wiped a calloused hand over his stubbled chin and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Caleb wasn't sure what to say, how to begin. "What colour are his eyes John?"

_What the hell? _"What?" John asked, more than a little confused. By this point, Dean had wandered quickly over to the impala; he'd loaded in his duffle and now stood adjacent to John, curious as to who was on the phone to his father.

"Sam's eyes, what colour are they? Do you remember?"

"Green, they're green. Why the hell does that matter?"

Caleb didn't speak immediately.

"Caleb? Talk to me." John sensed that there was something Caleb wasn't saying.

"Look John, I don't wanna go givin' you false hope or anything. It's just…last night, I was out with a couple guys im workin' a case with…" 

"And?" John impatiently asked, a faint glimmer of hope swirling in the depths of his mind.

"And I swear to god, I came freakin' face to face with that boy of yours."

X

Sam hugged himself tighter, vigorously rubbing his palms together and blowing warm breaths into them. The night was freezing, and thin flakes of sleet floated gracefully down from the sky, landing on Sam's now damp hair and face. He had to find some shelter, he was exhausted and there was no way he'd be sleeping in this weather. He didn't even have to check his bag, he was aware that there was no money in it – it's not like Ted gave him an allowance.

His deep, fast breaths were wheezy and Sam knew that running any further was not an option – he was sure he'd bleed out or simply pass out from pain if he did.

Passing by a small, grassy park, Sam noticed a tin shelter that stood over one of the picnic tables. It would do. The place seemed dry and clean enough, and there was nobody else there; more importantly, it was hidden.

Sam jogged over to the table, kneeling at the end of it and tucking himself underneath so that he lay beneath the table surface. The concrete ground was cold and hard, but the table around him made him feel hidden and safe. Despite his sense of security provided by his table cocoon, he couldn't help but feel a little vulnerable. If he slept, he would not be alert, he would not know if Ted was coming, or worse, if something more dangerous were coming. Sam wished to hell he had a damn bag of salt.

Sam hasn't realized that a hot tear was rolling down his cheek – a tear of pain. The wound in his abdomen was searing white-hot pain and throbbing like he'd only just been stabbed. Sam figured it had probably been an hour or so since he'd escaped – _I've escaped, never thought I'd be able to say that – _and he assumed that by now Ted had long discovered his absence and Dan's body. For the first time in, _hell, ever, _Sam found himself wondering what Ted was doing. Was he looking for him? Had he gone after his family? Sam started trembling at the thought, Ted might go after Dean and his father, he'd always said he would if he tried to leave. Maybe he should go back, take whatever beating Ted decided to issue and be glad that it wasn't his father or brother on the receiving end because of him.

No way, Ted would kill him for sure if he returned now. Sam was never going back there, but one thing was for sure, he needed to find his family – fast.

Nodding his head in agreement with himself, Sam remembered the task he had at hand. Shaky hands ripped the backpack open at the zip and searched the meager belongings for anything that could be used to wrap the wound. Sam found an old, grey sweatshirt in his bag and, upon realizing it was the only applicable item in the bag, groaned and sighed at the loss of his favorite item of clothing. Pulling up his shirt gently, the fabric that had become stuck in the now dry blood tugged on the wound and made Sam wince. Overall, it wasn't looking too bad, you know, for a stab wound.

The bleeding seemed to have stopped – good sign. Sam figured the guy probably hadn't hit any organs or arteries. If he had, Sam would surely die or have to find a clinic somewhere around here. Rolling up the sweatshirt, Sam pressed either sides of the wound together, and wrapped his makeshift bandage around his body and injury. The contact made Sam gasp and whimper a little in pain, but he'd had worse. After he'd successfully tied his bandage and hopefully ensured there would be no more blood loss through the night, Sam slowed his breathing and lay down on his back.

Sam groaned in discomfort, realizing that he'd left the knife in the back of his jeans. Tucking his lumpy, soft backpack underneath his head for a pillow, Sam rolled to the side, wishing he had a blanket of some sort. The knife held securely in his right hand, Sam closed his eyes and waited for his first sleep in freedom to come.

X

"Dad?!" Dean frantically repeated for what he thought had to be the fifth time.

"What Dean?" John finally returned, knuckles turning white he'd gripped the steering wheel so tight; his mind was obviously elsewhere.

"You wanna tell me where we're goin'? And what the hell did Caleb tell you that's got you so damn worked up?" 

John sighed, fearful, just as Caleb was, of providing any false hope. After a few moments of silence, John spoke slowly, "Caleb, he, uh, he says he thinks he might've seen.." John hesitated, shooting a glance in Dean's direction, "he thinks he saw Sammy."

Dean's face turned deadly serious, his jaw dropping and quivering, trying to find something to say.

"Where?" he managed to spit out.

"Roadhouse, said he was crawlin' around outside behind the bar." 

"Alone?"

"Caleb said so; also said he ran like a madman soon as Caleb saw him."

"You think he knew who Caleb was?"

John hesitated yet again, he couldn't let Dean's hopes raise any further in fear of him being let down again in the future. "Dean, you gotta realize, we don't even know if this kid was Sam; nobody's seen him in…in seven years, he looks different now."

Dean winced a little at hearing that, _we don't even know what Sammy looks like anymore. _But he was not ready to give up hope yet.

"Dad, we've spent too much time with no hope at all for me to drop this. We've spent damn near a freakin' decade thinkin' Sammy's dead or even worse, and if Caleb says he thinks he saw him alive and kickin', then Sammy's alive and kickin'."

John sighed; he should have known Dean would not accept the possibility of another false lead. Deep inside, John carried the same hope that Dean did; he'd give anything for his boy to come home to them, safe and breathing. But too many times had John been given hope that proved false. And too many times had he watched his eldest son go through the same.

John flicked on the radio, and let the music cloud his thoughts as they put tar behind them, bound for Nebraska.

X

**TBC**


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**X**

Sam woke while it was still dark. He didn't have a watch, but he figured it must have been around 3 or 4 in the morning. The pain in his abdomen was overwhelming and preventing his sleep, and now that he'd fully gained consciousness there was no going back. He sighed in frustration, still unbelievably low on energy and willpower. Contemplating just staying there and relaxing for a while, Sam finally decided it would be best to leave. Ted would be asleep right about now, there was no way he'd be out looking still. This time was best for Sam to move, not many people out, and the peace and quiet would be a pleasant change. Besides, Sam was freezing his ass off out here and he needed to start moving before he froze over.

Lifting his shirt, Sam groaned at the sight before him. His sweatshirt was totally soaked through, dark red blood had seeped throughout the material and Sam could damn near _smell _the blood that had leaked from his own body throughout the night. Sam untied his sweatshirt bandage and winced once again as the material caught on the dried blood. More blood leaked from the wound as the dried blood was broken and disrupted.

Aware of his limited resources, Sam packed his sweatshirt back into his bag – _gross – _and regretfully realized that he definitely needed some stitches. The wound, while the bleeding had reduced, had not stopped and Sam already felt a little lightheaded. Eyeing his other wound on his chest, Sam realized it probably needed some, too. He'd completely forgotten about the slash on his chest while tending to his stab wound, and the blood smears around were a constant reminder of that. Gently, Sam fingered the wound on his neck, sighing with relief when he concluded that it did not need stitches, but it hurt like hell.

A few hours later found Sam locked inside a small cubicle in a public bathroom, pulling the last stitches through his wound. Years of living with a scumbag like Ted had taught Sam a few things about shoplifting, and Sam had easily snagged himself some sewing thread, a needle and some alcohol.

Feeling a little better now that he'd stitched himself up, Sam took a moment to think about his plan – what now? For the first moment since he'd escaped Sam realized something – his family was closer now than they'd ever been. There was no Ted to stop him, no locked doors, no threats binding him to the house. Sam was free, free to find his family and go home. Home being, of course, wherever his family was.

Sam's stomach growled and he ignored it, he hadn't eaten in about two days, but he knew how to surpass hunger pains. Ted had often punished Sam by starving him, and he was pretty sure he'd gone over a week with no food – two days was nothing.

Taking a seat on the concrete ground behind the public bathrooms, Sam focused on how he was going to find his father and brother. He didn't remember their phone numbers anymore; Sam had tried calling them about a year after his kidnapping, when Ted had started to give Sam more freedom and he'd spotted the house phone. Sam had been racking his mind for the number when he realized he'd forgotten it – not too soon after did Ted realize what Sam was doing and punished him accordingly. Sam had never tried again.

Obviously there was no permanent address Sam could go to, his family didn't have a home, and Sam had no idea where uncle Bobby was. Damn, he sure wished he'd concentrated a little more on those dreadful car trips when he was younger.

There was only one place Sam could think of to go to that had some sort of connection to his family. Unfortunately, the exact same place had the same connection with Ted.

X

Dean yawned tiredly from the drivers seat, peeking over to the passenger side to see John's face half squashed up against the window with his mouth gawping open. He chuckled and turned up the air-con to keep himself awake. It was dark out and Dean was tempted to pull over and sleep, but they'd been driving non-stop for about ten hours now and Dean wasn't ready to be the first one to drop.

Sammy was close, Dean could feel it. No matter what John said about false leads and fallen hopes, Dean was convinced that Sammy was here, and he was damn sure going to find him. Dean almost shivered in anticipation; could this be it? Was he finally going to be reunited with his little brother?

Deans excited thoughts were interrupted as neon lights came into view through the heavy raindrops. Shaking his father awake, Dean was immediately on the lookout as the impala pulled into the car park of the roadhouse.

X

Sam was freezing; absolutely, chilled-to-the-bone, frostbite-inducing-freezing. His clothes were soaked, his hair was sopping, and he couldn't feel his feet or his hands. He stayed squatted in the bushes, warily watching out for any signs of Ted. His car wasn't there, but that didn't mean he wasn't, and Sam wasn't ready to get kidnapped all over again right after his escape.

The car park was reasonably quiet; only about five cars were parked in random parks around the space. And at this point in time, Sam seemed to be the only other person out. He took his chance, and slowly and carefully stepped out, creeping towards the very same window he'd stood at a few days earlier to spy on the people within the bar.

Something he spotted in the corner of his eye, however, stopped Sam in his tracks. Through the darkness and the rain, Sam glimpsed at something in the distance and swiftly made his way over to it. When he reached it, Sam looked a little closer, hoping he could realize why he found it so interesting. He ran the pad of his index finger along the shiny black surface, and stopped when his mind seemed to edge a little closer to a conclusion.

Sam was confused, disoriented and scared, sure, but he could have sworn, there was something familiar about the impala he was looking at.

X

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: Here it is everyone, the chapter you've all been waiting for! Let me know what you think **

**Chapter 11**

**X**

"Alright, thanks Ellen. Just…contact me if you hear or see anything, okay?" the disappointment in John's voice sounded all too familiar to Dean; nobody had heard or seen anything, or at least, if they had, they certainly weren't saying anything. Dean wandered off a little and scanned just about everyone's face in the joint before giving up on trying to spot who was guilty and who wasn't. Hell, these were hunters, and just about every hunter looks like a criminal; well, most of them probably _are_. Still, the thought that one of these guys might be the bastard who took Sammy sent shivers down Dean's spine. He tried to remember what the man looked like, but that night passed by in a blur, and Dean had little recollection of his appearance.

One thing Dean would never forget, however, was the look of pure terror in Sammy's eyes when he realized he had no chance. He was powerless against the man, and without Dean's help, Sam was near defenseless. Sure he could fight, but not someone four times his size. Sam knew he couldn't stand a chance, and the moment Dean saw that realization and defeat flicker in Sam's eyes was his last, dreadful memory of his little brother.

And Dean would never, ever forget his own feelings of absolute despair and heartache when he realized that that man was taking his little brother, and there was nothing he could do about it.

John's gentle hand on his shoulder shook Dean out of his memories and he looked up at the dispirited face of his father.

"Im goin' to take a leak. Go out and warm the car up."

Dean was not as put off by the lack of information uncovered at the roadhouse; they would keep looking yet, hope was not lost.

X

Sam's fingertips lightly traced along the edges of the car window. His sight was fixed on the backseat of the car, which looked strangely familiar. Feeling a little lightheaded, Sam soon found himself leaning against the car with both hands to keep himself standing. His chest tightened and it was getting harder and harder to breathe – what was it about this car? He leant in further, so that his nose was almost pressed against the window, to take a better look inside. Right beneath him, inside the same door he leant against, he noticed a little green object poking out of the ashtray. He wiped away at the raindrops on the window and squinted his eyes to get a better look – _what is that? Wait, is that…an army man? _Sam jumped in his shoes a little as a memory flashed through his mind, of him as a child, only 7 or 8, sitting in the backseat of the family car, cramming a little green toy soldier into the ashtray of the door next to him.

Sam gasped and dropped his hands from the car, stepping back quickly and scanning his eyes all over the car once again. _No way, there's no way. It can't be._ Sam was overwhelmed by panic, this was Ted's doing, for sure. This was a trick; Ted had found him, and was trying to trick him into raising his hopes before he took him back again. _No no no! I can't go back!_ Sam thought, and before he knew it his limbs were acting the way his mind felt – like mad. He kicked the car and violently pushed it, fear filling his veins. "I can't go back there!" he screamed, lashing out wildly at the vehicle.

Sam's actions were interrupted by the sound of a large, deep bellow from behind him. "Hey! Get the hell away from my car!"

Sam froze; he didn't turn around, he was petrified. _My _car? It must be Ted; he was coming for him, coming to take him back.

"Hey!" the voice repeated. Sam still couldn't move, his body wanted to run for it, get away, but he just couldn't. Suddenly, a firm hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around. Sam lashed out, wildly flailing his arms about in front of him, desperate to get away from Ted.

Screaming, Sam begged "No! I can't go back there! Don't take me back! Please!

Ted muttered something in annoyance and tightly gripped Sam's wrists. Sam squinted his eyes shut and looked to the ground, hiding his face behind his hair and his hood; fearful of the beating he would soon receive.

When no beating came, Sam opened his eyes and tried looking around without moving, but he couldn't see anything. His arms were still held tightly in Ted's grip, and he couldn't move. As Ted's grip loosened, Sam slowly raised his head until his eyes met Ted's.

Only, it wasn't Ted.

X

Dean grunted at the pain as he received a stinging scratch to his cheek – _damn, that kid's fingernails are sharp. _He was finally able to get his grip on the kid's wrists and stop his crazed thrashing about. Dean would have knocked him to the ground for what he'd been doing to his car had he not seemed so young, and the second Dean touched him he started begging him not to take him back to wherever it was he came from. Besides, his attack was feeble and weak; Dean could pin him down in a second.

After Dean firmly held the kid's wrists in his closed palms, the boy seemed to give up and resign in defeat. His head dropped and he looked towards the ground, and Dean could feel his arms instinctively trying to move in front of his face, as if trying to protect himself.

Dean wasn't sure what to do; he seemed harmless enough, so he gradually loosened his hold on the boy's wrists and held his palms out towards him in a sign of truce. The boy's head stayed lowered for a moment, but curiosity seemed to get the better of him, and slowly, his head rose until Dean could see his face more clearly.

_Those eyes._

Dean's heart skipped a beat, and then starting beating about 5 times faster than it should. His jaw dropped and his mouth quivered, searching for words. His vision was suddenly a little clouded by his watering eyes, but he swiftly blinked it away.

"S-Sammy?" He whispered, begging the gods of the heavens and earth that it was true.

The boy looked sad; he didn't show much emotion. His Adam's apple quivered and he started blinking a little faster. He didn't speak immediately, not for about ten seconds.

"Dean," he whispered in absolute relief and pure freaking victory.

Dean had never heard anything more beautiful, Sammy, his little brother, _his_ little brother Sammy, had spoken his name. There were so many times in the past 7 years Dean had thought he'd never hear that sound again; never see Sam's twinkling green eyes or see the way his lips curved upwards when he spoke. Dean reached forward without realizing, he had to touch him again, make sure he was real. He tightly gripped Sam's shoulders, squeezing them a little just to test that he wasn't some sort of mirage or figment of his imagination. His right hand trailed along Sam's shoulder until it cupped his cheek. Sam raised his own hand, and held it against the back of Dean's.

In a moment of absolute solace and love, Dean suddenly pulled Sam into the tightest embrace he'd ever held, with one hand wrapped around the back of Sam's damp head, he pulled him in closer and closer, until he was sure neither of them could breathe anymore. Sam held back even tighter, his palms fisting the material on the back of Dean's jacket, pulling Dean back into him, too. Sam dug his face into Dean's chest, basking in the warmth and comfort that was his long lost brother. Dean felt the sobs as Sam wept into his shirt, and he felt his own warm tears drop from his chin to his brother's head. Dean leant down until his own face rested on the top of Sam's hair, and he placed a gentle kiss on Sam's head, so soft that Sam probably wouldn't have felt it. Sam smiled as he sobbed into Dean's chest, breaking only to take in the scent of his brother – he still remembered it, even after all these years.

They stood there, like that, for another few minutes. Dean felt Sam's legs start to wobble and he pulled Sam from the embrace, both hands cupping his face. "Sammy?" he asked upon noticing Sam's weakened, pale face.

"De" he managed to whisper, as his legs gave way and he fell to the ground, his fall broken by his brother's strong, gentle arms, before he began to slip into unconsciousness.

There was no better way to die, Sam thought, than in the arms of the person he loved most in this world.

X

**TBC**


End file.
